


let's get screwed!

by Macremae



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Lab Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pre-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), Size Kink, Trans Newton Geiszler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 12:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30088905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: For the Newmann NSFW Zine 2020.If hard pressed, Hermann would say under oath and with his hand super glued to a copy of the Bible (despite the volume itself having no effect on his honesty, law and otherwise) that the reason he nearly trips are the tools haphazardly scattered around the general area of the kitchen. That is the explanation. Theonlylogical one. Unequivocally.Newton’s arse has nothing to do with it.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22
Collections: And They Have Sex By The Way: An 18+ Newt/Hermann Fanzine





	let's get screwed!

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to everyone for putting this amazing zine together, and you can get your copy here! https://twitter.com/nsfwnewmannzine/status/1349746068427309058?s=21

“Hermann,” says Newton, setting the lab’s receiver down with slightly more force than necessary, “I don’t think maintenance likes me.”

Hermann, not even moving from his spot at his desk, glances over and up through his glasses at the repurposed blender by Newton’s workspace, the sanitizer bucket currently holding his dirty tools, the multiple musical instruments plugged into something that is _definitely_ not a surge protector, and the large, spiritually neon OSHA violation that is some likely distressing device he has taken to calling “the Milking Machine”. “Oh good heavens,” he says flatly. “I’m shocked.”

Newton rolls his eyes, pushing himself up and walking purposefully to their makeshift-kitchen area. “Okay, smartass; well you can have fun finding a new place to put all your weird snacks—”

“Vegetables, Newton. You are referring to vegetables.”

“—because our fridge,” he stops at the minifridge they’ve crammed next to the sink and thumps the top of it a few times, “just broke.”

 _This_ gets Hermann’s attention. He frowns, rising from his chair to join Newton over by the fridge that, indeed, has been opened to reveal no cold air coming out, and a puddle of something melted and translucent on the top shelf.  
His lips press together distastefully. “I assume everything in there was beyond saving?”

Newton shrugs. “I managed to grab some stuff and throw it in cold storage— away from my samples!” he adds off Hermann’s open mouth. “But we’ll have to buy some new creamer. And find some way to fix it.”

“Dare I ask what the final straw for maintenance was?”

Newton has the good graces to look slightly sheepish. “I mean. I didn’t exactly tell them that’s what broke. Since we’re not really supposed to have one here. In the lab.”

“Ah.” Hermann is unfortunately able to understand the situation. “I see.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be too hard.” Newton dusts his hands together in an assured gesture and looks down at the fridge again. “It’s just a break in the coil where the coolant is kept. I can patch it up in no time.” He pauses, thinking. “Or, y’know. At least find a video on YouTube about it.”

The war in Hermann’s mind between being rightfully wary of Newton poking around any sort of machinery, and not having to leave the lab for, their record being, at most three days to get food, is won quickly. He sighs. “Don’t electrocute yourself. That’s all I ask.”

“Hey!” Newton fires back indignantly, hands falling to his hips. “I have a degree in engineering. This is, like, the opposite of rocket science for me.”

“That is not as reassuring as you think it is,” he replies, already trying to remember where they keep the good mop.  


* * *

  
Newton announces he’s staying late the next night after returning from a shopping trip, bag of dubious repair tools in hand. Hermann doesn’t think entirely that much of it, and chooses to turn in with the knowledge that whatever ungodly mess he finds covering the lab floor in the morning, he can at least attribute to someone else. And be justified in making Newton chip in a little extra on his half of buying a new fridge.

Had he known what he would actually be walking into, he would have perhaps made his tea a little stronger for breakfast. And possibly added some alcohol.

Newton is not working, at least on anything related to Kaiju. At first, Hermann doesn’t even see him. He sets his bundle of notebooks down on his desk, unclipping the pen from his shirt pocket and placing it beside them (there is a system to his mornings, and despite usually having it sent astray by certain people, Hermann does try to stick to it). Newton is nowhere to be found, which strikes him as odd, considering that he often comes in even earlier than Hermann. Perhaps he stayed later than expected that night; it wouldn’t be the first time. 

Then, Hermann hears someone hissing, “Ow!” from the direction of the floor. 

He turns towards the kitchenette, wondering if Newton is trying to peel one of his oranges with a butter knife again, and this time hears the sound of scraping metal. He cranes his neck to see over the rolling shelf in his way, then, giving up, abandons his work and takes a few hesitant steps past it.

If hard pressed, Hermann would say under oath and with his hand super glued to a copy of the Bible (despite the volume itself having no effect on his honesty, law and otherwise) that the reason he nearly trips are the tools haphazardly scattered around the general area of the kitchen. That is the explanation. The _only_ logical one. Unequivocally.

Newton’s arse has nothing to do with it.

The rest of him isn’t looking much better ( _It is not, it is decidedly_ not, Hermann tells himself). His hair is stuck up in nearly a hundred different directions, streaks of it clumped together where his fingers had clearly spread something that’s now crusted over. He’s got a dark smudge on the bridge of his nose from pushing his glasses up, small flecks of the stuff sprinkled over his white t-shirt, which is decidedly… tight, as far as undershirts go. The ever-ridiculous skinny jeans remain, straining where Newton is crouched on all fours, carefully twisting some bit of metal on the back of the fridge. The fingers moving it are surprisingly nimble. Or unsurprising, actually. Hermann is trying very hard not to think about it.

Newton notices the shoe by his face and pushes himself into a seated position, blinking up at Hermann in surprise. “Oh, hey,” he says, pushing his glasses up again. “Hermann. Is it morning already?”

What Hermann means to say is something along the lines of, “It took you all night to fix a broken refrigerator?” or “What are these tools doing all over the floor; it’s a miracle I didn’t trip over them!” or something equally clever and sardonic, but instead what comes out is, “I didn’t know you owned an undershirt.”

This is technically true. Newton never wears anything under his button ups to work, citing the amount of times he’s had to strip and run for the decontamination shower as justification for fewer layers. Hermann can’t decide whether to insult the logic of that unsound sentiment, or the fact that without a layer between them, many of Newton’s more vivid tattoos can be seen through the thin cotton. It’s a workplace distraction. Because of the unsavory nature of the material. Obviously.

“Well yeah, I have a couple,” Newton replies, oblivious to the small personal crisis currently circulating among the remaining delegates of Hermann’s brain. “For like, dirty work. Shit I don’t want my work clothes getting ruined for.” He cocks his head and lets out a small laugh. “Or, well, y’know. More than I have to.”

“Quite,” says Hermann in a voice typically reserved for particularly distressing revelations about himself. Which, this may qualify as. “Er. How is it—” he gestures with one stiff, jerky hand at anywhere other than Newton’s surprisingly broad chest. “Going. With the refrigerator.”

Newton brings up an arm to wipe his forehead (his forearms are also very nice. Maybe Hermann should finally consider considering therapy). “Not bad. Fucking hot in here, though.”

It is rather warm in the lab, Hermann notes. August in Hong Kong is like walking around in a constant soup, although usually being tucked in the Shatterdome basement keeps things just cool enough for his usual four layers of clothing. Perhaps Newton will need to fix the air conditioning next.

 _Or you could bear it a little while longer_ , suggests a particularly illogical part of his brain. _See what other clothing he might remove. For curiosity’s sake._

Hermann bites down on the inside of his cheek hard. _Absolutely_ not. 

“Hey,” Newton says, snapping Hermann out of his very bad line of thinking, “could you hand me my water bottle? It’s on the counter.”

Hermann clears his throat sharply, grateful for the distraction. “Ah. Yes, of course.” He reaches over Newton to grab the heavily stickered water bottle on the kitchenette counter above him, passing it down to where he’s sat. Newton shoots him a grin as he takes it, sending Hermann’s heart stuttering for an entirely more innocent reason. Frankly, that only makes things worse.

“Thanks,” he says, and tilts his head back to take a series of large gulps, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. Hermann follows the movement of the muscles in his throat as they flex. His nails are practically scraping the head of his cane at this point. It’s really quite unbecoming.

Of course, the millisecond before Hermann begins to chide himself into some state of respectability, Newton takes one last swallow, raises the bottle over his head, and proceeds to douse himself. 

Somewhere, faintly, Hermann hears the sound his computer makes when the screen goes blue.

Streams of water rush down Newton’s face and onto his shirt, turning the white cotton translucent and putting his tattoos on stark display. A glistening rivulet traces the curve of his stubbled jaw, dangling at the junction where it sharpens for a moment, then slipping into the line of his pale neck. Hermann wonders what it would be like to follow that path with his tongue, salt and scratch and warm skin flushing underneath him, Newton’s pulse fluttering alongside the vibrations of his throat as he—

“How much longer until you’re finished?” Hermann croaks out. His empty hand is almost numb, except where his nails are now digging into his palms.

Newton brightens. “Okay, well, I just got the valve open a little bit to put the refrigerant in, and after that we should be close to good to go!” Beside him is a can of something with a hose attached, placed on a scale. Newton gives the back of the fridge one more glance before scooting back to get a better view of the scale, then carefully closes his fingers around the hose trigger.

His hand flexes ever-so-slightly as it gives the trigger a short, controlled squeeze. He glances at the scale, then does so again. His fingers are also dirty, Hermann notes. And precise. And very sturdy.

Hermann quickly turns his gaze to the ceiling and begins quietly humming _Guten Morgen, Sonnenschein_ under his breath in an attempt to make the increasing discomfort in his trousers disappear. Newton makes a soft noise of concentration beneath him. Hermann hums louder.

After several agonizing minutes of this, Newton finally claps his hands together and says, “Okay, I think that’s good. I’m gonna check the tray; hold on.”

Then, and this is truly the worst part, he rises up on his knees and faces the back of the fridge, bends over the top, and leans down to open the front door. Hermann’s knees are almost level with his arse, which his jeans cling to like latex all the way down the backs of his thighs. His shirt rides up slightly, and Hermann can see a thin strip of colorful skin with tattoos pointing downwards, of all things, which could honestly lead one to believe that they continue past Newton’s waistband and curve all the way over his—

This is bad. This is stupendously bad. Hermann needs to leave right now. Hermann needs to start walking back to his desk, or better yet out of the lab and into the communal showers and under a stream of cold water for the next hour or so until the image of Newton with his arse in the _bloody_ air like some kind of particularly cruel dream-come-to-life scenario is burned from his mind forever. And he _really_ needs to do this before Newton turns around.

The door to the fridge slams shut, and Newton spins clockwise on his knees to beam up at him. “Dude, I did it! It’ll be a bit before food can go in, but nothing’s coming out of the patched part and the temperature is going—” He stops, freezing, and cuts himself off. His eyes widen slightly. “Oh, um. Okay.”

Because of _course_ Newton’s full height while kneeling would line his gaze up perfectly with Hermann’s mortifyingly apparent erection.

Hermann wonders if frying an egg on his presumably scarlet face would diffuse the tension. Newton stares at the front of his trousers for a moment, frozen, before his gaze flicks up to Hermann, then back down, then up again. “Okay,” he repeats. Hermann considers walking into the ocean.

“I—” he tries, voice coming out strangled (and more than a little pathetic). Somehow, this situation is not a dealbreaker for his body at _all_. Newt seems to notice alongside him. His eyebrow quirks up by a fraction of an inch.

Well that right there is enough. Hermann feels something burn at the bottom of his chest, reality clear as day, and forces his face into an expression of rage with not too much difficulty. “I don’t—” he starts, and thankfully catches the break before it comes out. “I don’t see how there’s— there’s anything even remotely humorous about this, and this has nothing to do with you anyway, and you should be absolutely ashamed of your quite frankly childish response to a completely non—”

“Holy shit,” Newton breathes out, tacking on a low whistle at the end. “For a guy who’s in desperate need of one, you are making the strongest case for not getting a blowjob I’ve ever heard.”

The next half-formed admonishment dies in Hermann’s throat. Newton grins infuriatingly. “Well bingo. I think that’s the record for me winning an argument.”

“You didn’t—” Hermann starts, but sucks in a shocked breath when Newton begins running a warm hand up his right leg. He says nothing, just carefully studying Hermann’s face for a reaction, and Hermann thinks he might pass out by the time Newton reaches mid-thigh. The hand not on his cane is shaking.

“Nothing to do with me, huh?” Newton says faux-casually, thumb moving up and down so close to the crease of Hermann’s thigh. His eyes are darker, and dancing. “Well shit. And here I thought this would finally be the time you did something besides stare at my ass and breathe heavily for twenty minutes.”

Hermann lets out a noise halfway between a squeak and a groan. “I have _never_ —”

Newton’s thumb brushes the crease. “Oh you fucking liar. I seriously considered wearing tennis shoes to work one day just to see if my ankle would have the same effect. I’m guessing it would.” The hand itself moves higher. Hermann’s hand grips his cane so tightly it hurts. 

He can’t decide whether to be mortified that he’s been so obvious, or terrified that Newton is only teasing. He must see it on Hermann’s face, because his expression softens. “Hey, dude, no. I’m not fucking with you. You think I actually own an undershirt?” He glances down at the tight stretch of the fabric, the way it strains over his sturdy biceps and soft stomach. “Or, at least, one that I didn’t buy back in college?”

“You knew I would see this,” Hermann says half to himself. Newton openly smirks.

“Listen, I say this with love, man, but those chalkboards weren’t gonna mess themselves up. You have all the sexual gumption of a turtle.” He shrugs. “I kinda figured this would get a rise out of you.”

Hermann’s vocals still appear not to be working properly. “I didn’t—” he says, “I wasn’t aware you were so…” His eyes drag over those arms again, strong and colorful and smeared with sealant, droplets of water pebbled on the hairs on his forearms, fingers thick and rough and calloused, both the way one would expect from someone who so often drags samples three times his size across the Shatterdome. Newton, of all things, blushes.

“I mean, y’know, perk of the job, I guess. Helps with it, too.” He looks up at Hermann through those lush, pretty eyelashes. “So this is you saying I’m right?”

“You’ll never get it in writing,” Hermann mutters, and Newton lets out a bright laugh, pressing his forehead against his hand on Hermann’s thigh. Hermann lets out a sharp wheeze at the contact. Newton’s eyes snap open.

“I was right,” he repeats smugly, voice dipping as low as one like his possibly could. His hand moves up even higher.

“So?” Hermann says, trying for snide but instead coming out more than a little breathless.

“So,” Newton echoes, an answer in itself. His other hand slides carefully up the back of Hermann’s other thigh, stopping just below his arse. “Do you wanna abandon your case?”

“Er,” Hermann’s breath stutters in his throat. “Ah. For?”

Newton slides his hand over the front of Hermann’s trousers and _squeezes_. Hermann makes a noise like he’s been punched. “Not letting me suck your dick, man. ‘Cause, like. I’d sure fucking like to.”

Hermann nods mutely, heart feeling like it’s about to hammer out of his chest, and Newton chuckles softly before brushing his hand back over and up to hold Hermann’s hip. He replaces it with the warm press of his mouth, breathing a puff of air through the fabric that makes Hermann shoot out an arm to reach over him and clutch the edge of the counter for support. He can feel Newton’s smile.

“Are you gonna be good?”

“You said you wanted to suck me off, Newton,” he grinds out, already feeling sweat begin to bead on his forehead, “so get on with it.”

Newton’s breath catches against him and he releases Hermann’s hip to undo the clasp of his trousers, pulling the zipper down with his hand shaking from clear restraint. Hermann groans as some of the pressure on his cock is relieved, Newton’s other hand finally making its way up to cup his arse. He feels him draw his cock out of his briefs and run his hand over the length. 

“Were you, like, aware that you have a porno dick?” Newton asks, anticipation evident in his voice. Hermann has not exactly seen much porn to begin with, but he feels his flush creep over his shoulders at the compliment. 

“Will that be, a—” he starts, but Newton, as always, barrels ahead.

“I can definitely deep throat this; hey, watch,” he says, and, with uncharacteristic carefulness, wraps his mouth around the head of Hermann’s cock, stills for a moment, then takes almost all of it in one go.

Hermann’s cane clatters to the ground. His other hand grips the counter even tighter than the first. “ _Christ_ , Newton,” he wheezes, eyes having to shut tight at the sudden wet, snug heat enveloping him. Newton, it seems, does not have an issue with size at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He keeps his head still for a moment, giving Hermann a few lazy sucks that light up the pit of his stomach like a firecracker. His tongue stretches to trace the vein running down the underside, and Hermann lets out a sharp moan when the tip of it reaches his slit and dips in. Apparently there is a reason Newton is so articulate while talking at speeds previously thought unattainable by human mouths. 

He runs his tongue back up, curling at the tip of its reach and sliding back, then finally swallows Hermann the rest of the way. Something bright and embarrassing leaps from Hermann’s throat when he does, and he lets one hand fall to tangle in Newton’s hair. As almost an afterthought, he curls his fingers and tugs.

Newton’s eyes roll back into his head immediately, and the noise he makes around Hermann’s cock brings him almost to the edge. He drags his hand lower, to the nape of Newton’s neck, and tugs harder. The hand on his arse is shaking. Newton moans again, the vibrations nearly unbearable, and slides off with a lewd pop! His lips are bright red and swollen, a trail of saliva falling from the bottom one. 

Once Hermann manages to catch his breath, he frowns. “Why—” he begins, but Newton smirks at his heaving chest, momentarily stunning him. The frown intensifies. “Why did you stop?”

Newton shrugs far too casually for someone who was grinding on thin air a moment ago. “I mean, you obviously have a thing for me getting dirty.” He pushes against the hand in his hair and raises an eyebrow. “Or maybe just messing me up. So I assumed you’d probably be into coming on my face.”

He doesn’t even phrase it as a question. Hermann is furious. Nevermind that yes, he would be very, _very_ amenable to that.

“That is—” he sputters, and Newton’s grin broadens.

“-definitely a thing for you; got it.” He gives Hermann’s arse a squeeze and trails the other hand to the base of his cock. “So do you?”

Hermann’s entire face is on fire. Clearly, Newton gets some kind of perverse thrill from forcing him to do debasing things like voice his desires out loud.

Incorrigible.

Glancing away but resisting the urge to hide his face in his raised shoulder, he nods.

“No, no, I’m fixing our fridge all by myself _and_ giving you a blowjob _and_ letting you jizz on me. I want verbal confirmation, Herms.”

“I hope you trip and fall into your eyeball vat,” Hermann snaps through gritted teeth. And then, after a pause, “Yes.”

“Aw, was that so hard?” Newton runs his hand down the length of Hermann’s cock, gathering some of the precome leaking at the end and smearing it with his own saliva to ease the way. “And here I thought you’d be the one bossing _me_ around.”

“Who the hell says I won’t?” he replies, forcing himself to concentrate enough to sound somewhat put together. “You could certainly do more than— ah— wear your wrist out. Faster.”

Newton makes a high whine in the back of his throat and leans in closer, speeding up his strokes and sticking out his tongue to press it flat against the tip of Hermann’s cock. He’s moving against nothing again, the seam of his jeans clearly providing some much-needed friction to his clit. Hermann runs his nails over the shorter hairs at the back of Newton’s neck, thumb swiping lower in a movement that, he realizes with more self-consciousness than anything else this day has brought, feels oddly tender. 

Newton curls the tip of his tongue up slightly, giving a final tug and twist of his wrist, and Hermann has to force his eyes to stay open as his orgasm overtakes him. He’s rewarded; long, white spurts of come coat Newton’s tongue and splatter across his glasses, his flushed cheeks, his soft pink lips. He lets out a soft sigh, a sound Hermann has never heard before from him, and takes the head of his cock in his mouth again to suck him through the aftershocks. After a few moments it’s all too much, and Hermann tugs on his hair until he pulls off.

He licks a drop of come off the corner of his mouth and stares up at Hermann with wide, dark eyes, tongue staying out for a second too long to be accidental. Hermann swallows hard, his heart still pounding. He removes his hand from Newton’s hair and returns it to the counter, both of them trembling, a bead of sweat rolling down to the small of his back. “Well,” he says hoarsely. He chances a look at Newton again. That’s Hermann, covering his face, staining his already grimy undershirt. He feels almost dizzy.

He gestures loosely at the counter, clearing his throat. “Here,” he says, “come on. I’ll, ah. Help. If you’d like me to.”

Newton snorts, but his eyes sparkle, and he pushes himself to stand. Bracing one hand backwards, he hops up onto the counter and scooches himself over to lift Hermann’s hand and duck in between them. The hand is placed directly on his thigh. It’s very warm. Soft. Their faces are close. Hermann wonders what he tastes like in Newton’s mouth.

“Hi,” says Newton, winding one hand in the lapel of Hermann’s blazer and pulling him even closer. “You made me a fucking mess, dude.” 

“You—” Hermann opens his mouth for a half-hearted protest, but Newton just laughs. Their lips are nearly touching. Hermann can almost feel the curve of his smile. 

“My turn.”


End file.
